


Actually it's about ethics in sports journalism

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: A little bit of angst, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Developing Friendship, Dylan is a sabre, Famous/Non-Famous Au, M/M, alternative 2015 draft, and I have only the vaguest notion of how that job works so just...go with it, but otherwise his nhl struggles are much the same, mental health in the nhl, oh and Connor is a beat reporter, player/reporter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 19:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: “Don’t worry, I’m just messing with you,” Strome laughs, putting his hand over the lift door so it won’t close on Connor on his way in.  “We’re friends, aren’t we?”“No,” Connor says, before he can stop himself. Strome looks kind of taken aback, so he backpedals hurriedly.  “We’re...friendly...uh, coworkers, I would say.” They’re barely coworkers, but like.  They cross paths when they’re both at work, he supposes. “Colleagues.” Strome raises his eyebrows slightly.“Oh,” he says, nodding.  He leans against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets and flashes Connor an easy smile.  “You don’t wanna be my friend?”Rule one of the sports beat reporter playbook is: don’t get too familiar with the players. Connor has been having to remind himself of this rule a lot, lately.





	Actually it's about ethics in sports journalism

**Author's Note:**

> This began as an innocent tumblr prompt - “Mcstrome famous/non-famous au?” - and got a little out of hand. I really wanted to write something where Dylan was the famous one and Connor the “nobody,” but also it turns out I have a lot of Feelings about Dylan (who among us is really surprised??) and this turned into a story about love, of course, but also kind of about boundaries and ethics in sports journalism and fandom, and maybe even about mental health in sports?? It’s a bit different to how I usually write these two but I like it.
> 
> CW wise there are references in this fic to mild, unlabelled anxiety and depression, and to an invasion of privacy that makes these issues temporarily worse. There's nothing extreme, but just in case people want to know in advance :)
> 
> Note on the draft from this verse: obviously with no Connor McDavid the 2015 draft looks a little different. I could’ve just shifted everybody up one pick, but the idea of Mitch Marner not being a Leaf gave me hives. Also the Yotes were pretty desperate for a future franchise centre when they drafted Dylan and the fact they picked him in the first round and then traded for Lawson Crouse later says size was pretty important to them too, so it doesn’t seem likely they would’ve chosen Mitch anyway (this was right before the big front office changes that led to drafting Clayton Keller a year later, but in 2015? No). I could have moved Hanifin up but the Yotes needed a centre, not D, so in this verse I have them picking Pavel Zacha, who actually went 6th to the Devils. Nothing deep about it, and it has no bearing on this story as I don’t really know anything about Zacha, but for any other AU nerds who were curious, that’s how it is!

Rule one of the sports beat reporter playbook is: don’t get too familiar with the players. 

It’s easy to forget that rule. It can feel like you’re friends, sometimes, because you spend so much time around them and you kind of get to know them a bit, but you’re _not_ friends. They’re here to do a job and so are you. Even when a player’s the same age as you are, he’s not your buddy. Even when you think you’d probably get along really well under more normal circumstances, that you _would_ be friends if you weren’t getting paid to ask him annoying questions and he wasn’t putting up with it because he has to. Even when he’s funny and tall and surprisingly smart and, um. Kind of cute. He’s not your friend.

Connor has been having to remind himself of this rule a lot, lately.

He has to remember it extra hard when he’s leaving the rink after filing his story for the night and runs into Buffalo Sabres centre Dylan Strome on the way to the elevator. Almost literally; Connor’s not watching where he’s going and Strome has to reach out and grab him by the shoulders so Connor doesn’t walk right into him. 

He could’ve just said “hey watch out” instead, of course. The problem with Strome in particular - apart from the funny-tall-smart-cute thing, none of which ought to be allowed - is that he doesn’t seem to be very good at remembering the rule about players and reporters and professional distance either.

Connor wishes he didn’t enjoy that so much.

“Easy, McDavid,” Strome grins at him, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. “Nearly took a tumble there. Can’t afford to lose _you_ for the rest of the season.”

“I’m sure you’d miss me,” Connor says dryly, reaching past Strome to press the call button for the elevator. It’s a mistake, because it brings them close enough together that Connor’s brain can register how good he smells, which was information he did not need.

“I mean, sure,” Strome says. “Who’d keep my ego in check without you and Twitter, eh?”

Connor frowns, then frowns harder when he remembers what Strome’s talking about. “Oh, come on,” he says. “It’s my job to-- I’m not-- that was _one_ tweet.”

It’s his _job_ to be analytical about what he sees on the ice, and the whole point of having a Twitter account is to start conversations. Whether the Sabres would be better off trading Strome for a stronger skater now they’ve got Dahlin and Skinner on the roster and the team seems to be changing to a faster paced style was a legitimate question, and lots of people were asking it before he did. It’s not even like he’d said they _would_ be better off, he just floated the idea for discussion.

Strome had liked his tweet anyway.

“Don’t worry, I’m just messing with you,” he laughs now, putting his hand over the lift door so it won’t close on Connor on his way in. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“No,” Connor says, before he can stop himself. Strome looks kind of taken aback, so he backpedals hurriedly. “We’re...friendly...uh, coworkers, I would say.” They’re barely coworkers, but like. They cross paths when they’re both at work, he supposes. “Colleagues.” Strome raises his eyebrows slightly.

“Oh,” he says, nodding. He leans against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets and flashes Connor an easy smile. “You don’t wanna be my friend?”

“I...” Connor says carefully, “think I sometimes have to write not very flattering things about you. For my job. So um. That’d be harder if we were friends.”

“That’s not a no,” Strome says, smiling wider.

He’s not wrong. Connor can feel his mouth twitching into a smile of its own, as if they’re sharing a joke, so he clutches his laptop bag a little tighter in both hands like a shield. He should’ve taken the stairs.

Mercifully, the elevator’s a quick one and they reach the car park before Connor actually has to say anything else. Strome tilts his head, looking amused, and unfolds himself from the wall as the doors open.

“Alright then,” he says lightly. “Catch ya later, _colleague_.”

*

Really Connor probably should have just said no, he didn’t want to be friends.

He thinks about on his five hour flight to Phoenix, crushed into an economy seat that was not made with someone over six foot in mind and trying not to imagine the comfortable chartered flight the team are on right now. They - and he, by extension - have a five game road trip stretching out ahead of them, and as cool and exciting as it is to have his work fly him around the country to watch hockey games he can’t help but wish the budget stretched to, like. Business class. Even premium economy would do. Maybe if he was comfortable enough to nap he wouldn’t keep thinking about the particular way Strome smiled at him in the elevator.

He thinks about it even more when Strome gets scratched for the game against the Coyotes, and Connor misses half the game _he’s supposed to be covering_ because he can’t stop looking at him in the press box, sitting near the window by himself. A lot of guys who just got scratched on the road would be moping out of sight somewhere, hiding in the team bus, but Dylan’s up here in public ignoring the looks, like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him.

He doesn’t acknowledge Connor, which, of course he doesn’t; he’s working, just as much as Connor is supposed to be. He spends his time watching the game below with this intent little frown of concentration, occasionally murmuring some inaudible remark to himself or making a note about something on his phone. 

Even as a healthy scratch he’s switched on, smart, analysing everything on the ice and no doubt committing it to that powerful memory of his. It’s something Connor’s come to admire about him, the way he doesn’t stop trying in the face of setbacks. Connor was still in college, not a reporter yet, when Strome was a rookie, but he knows he had a rocky start with a team that had no qualms letting him know they wished they’d won the lottery and got to draft Jack Eichel instead. He didn’t let it get to him.

Probably felt like shit, though.

Connor can’t really write his usual game analysis because frankly the game’s been _boring_. Sometimes a one goal game is a thrilling, edge-of-your-seat contest between two defensive juggernauts, but in this case it was more like neither team seemed to care much about scoring. And as out of character as it is for Connor, he’s had trouble focusing. He briefly considers cornering Strome in the third period to ask him for a few observations but that would be...weird. They’re not friends. And trying to get a player to do your work for you is probably an even worse faux pas than being a bit too friendly with him.

The article Connor ends up writing (hurriedly, in the second half of the third period) is less about the game and more about the players who are missing from it; Strome and the other 2015 first round pick who ought to have been out there, Pavel Zacha. Zacha’s injured, not a healthy scratch, according to the press kit Connor picked up earlier, but he hasn’t exactly had a winning start in the league either. Connor’s article turns into a bit of a “where are they now” review of the 2015 draft, looking at why all these promising players who were supposed to breathe new life into their struggling teams have mostly failed to do that.

Jack Eichel is good, but he’s stuck with the Oilers and they wouldn’t know what to do with a first overall pick if he was the best player in the world, which unfortunately Eichel is not. Hanifin’s just been traded, so apparently the Canes think they can do better without him. The Coyotes were one of the worst teams in the league last season, and the Sabres were the worst team. Only the Leafs seem to have actually benefited so far from collecting a top five pick in what had been a pretty hyped draft at the time. Was the hype overinflated? Or have four NHL teams just totally failed to capitalise on elite talent in the three whole years since the draft?

Okay, it’s not exactly Connor’s best work, but he’s got to submit something, so he gives the story a quick edit and then emails it off before heading out. Most people have left before he does, and he’s so absorbed in his writing he misses the chance to see Strome go or offer him a reassuring smile or...something. He feels a bit of a pang when he realises that, but squashes it down just as quickly.

Dylan Strome is his _subject_ , and one of many. He’s not his friend.

*

Nights on the road can be a little lonely, sometimes. Connor’s got some friends among the other local guys in Buffalo, and he’s on friendly enough terms to have a meal or a drink or two with some of the regulars in cities where the Sabres play a lot, but they’re only in Glendale once per season so he’s at a loose end tonight.

But it’s fine, Connor’s a self-sufficient kind of person. He finds a quiet looking bar that claims to serve “the best tacos in the state of Arizona” which seems like a pretty bold statement, and takes a seat at the bar to eat. There’s a tv overhead showing highlights from the game and he sort of half watches it, but it’s just as boring as he remembers from earlier. The tacos are pretty good. Maybe not the best in the state, but pretty good.

He’s been to the washroom and is just trying to decide whether or not to have another beer before calling it a night when he notices a familiar profile half in shadow in one of the secluded back booths.

He wonders, for a moment, if Strome’s on a date or a random out of town hookup, and feels awkward about observing that, even accidentally. But a second look shows that he’s alone. One beer, one coaster. Although the slightly flushed look to Strome’s face says it’s not his first, or even his second.

Connor hesitates. He wants to say something. He doesn’t know what, but something...reassuring or comforting, or at least something funny enough to distract from whatever terrible thoughts he’s dwelling on alone in a bar at almost midnight. But he shouldn’t. Because they’re not friends, and probably the last person Strome wants to see or be seen by right now is a reporter.

Apparently Connor pauses long enough to be conspicuous, though, because Strome looks up and spots him. His body language changes immediately, hunched shoulders and pensive expression melting into a smile.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here,” he says, as if they _are_ friends. “You want to join me for a beer?”

“Oh,” Connor says. “Uh, I don’t want to bother--” he starts, but Strome makes a dismissive noise and cuts him off.

“Nah, don’t be stupid, I hate being alone,” he says. He slaps the leather booth seat beside him. “C’mon.” When Connor still hesitates, he rolls his eyes dramatically. “Look, if it helps you get the stick out of your ass we can pretend we don’t know each other.”

Connor’s about to protest the stick-out-of-your-ass comment, but Strome holds out his hand and smiles warmly up at him.

“Hey there,” he says. “I’m Dylan and I have absolutely no connection to hockey or sports of any kind. Nice to meetcha.”

Connor smiles back in spite of himself. Oh, what the hell.

“Connor,” he says, shaking Strome’s - Dylan’s - hand. “And uh. Same.”

He’s got a good handshake, Connor thinks. Strong and confident, but not aggressive. His hand feels as warm as his smile. It strikes Connor as odd that they’ve known each other nearly a year now but he’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve ever touched like this, skin-to-skin.

Connor sits down, and Dylan orders another round, and they just. Talk. Get to know each other, which feels kind of weird with someone Connor already knows so much about, but it’s different, more personal. And besides, Dylan barely knows anything about _him_ , because he traditional player/reporter relationship is a pretty one-sided one, so the back and forth between them now is new, and nicer than Connor thought it would be. He doesn’t usually like talking about himself much, but Dylan makes it easy.

Dylan tells him stories about growing up with his two brothers - who Connor knows about, of course, but only as hockey players, not as these totally human _people_ who make Dylan’s whole face light up when he talks about them - and Connor tells him about his own family, his parents and Cam, and about college, which Dylan seems to find endlessly fascinating. It feels weird talking about the mundanities of term papers and all night study sessions and unpaid internships as if they’re something strange and mysterious, but he supposes they might be if you walked into a $600k job more or less straight out of high school. Dylan leans forward while Connor’s speaking like every word out of his mouth is totally captivating, and their knees press together under the table, and Connor can literally feel his own heart beating.

That last part’s probably some kind of danger sign. Connor’s enjoying himself too much to care.

They abandon the pretense about not knowing each other after a while. Realistically, both of them love hockey, and hockey takes up a big part of both their lives; they’re going to talk about it.

“So, you live in Buffalo, but you grew up a Leafs fan,” Dylan says, squinting slightly at Connor. “You don’t sound American.”

“Yeah, I’m from Toronto,” says Connor. “But it’s a lot easier to get a grad job in Buffalo, in sports. Not as competitive.” Like, it’s still competitive, but it’s not _Toronto_. Toronto’s got more sports media jobs, but also way more desperate Leafs and Jays and Raps fans vying for them. As if being a journalist has anything to do with being a _fan_.

“So they tell me,” Dylan says, and snorts. “At least it’s close to home. I could’ve ended up here, you know,” he adds, looking around. “Only one pick later. Wonder what that would’ve been like.”

“Warmer, probably,” Connor says.

“Right? I could have a year-round tan living in Arizona.” He spreads his arms out along the back of the booth until he’s nearly touching Connor’s collar. “A pool in the backyard, cactus out the front. I think I’d look good in red, don’t you?”

Connor thinks he looks good in navy blue, or maybe just in whatever colour means Connor gets to see him all the time, but he can’t say that out loud so he just makes a noncommittal noise. Dylan’s smile turns a little sharp at the corners.

“So what do you think, is this where they should trade me?”

Connor laughs and shakes his head, but he’s not sure if it’s a joke or not.

“No, look, you’re the ideas man,” Dylan presses, nudging Connor with his knee under the table. “What d’you think they could get for me? Third rounder?”

“Oh, come on,” Connor says, frowning. He has, actually, thought about who the Sabres might consider in a trade before, but only as a sort of professional exercise. He’s certainly not going to say any of it to Dylan’s face. It feels like the conversation’s taken a very abrupt turn, and Connor’s not sure how to steer it back. Dylan barks a laugh and takes a long sip of his beer.

“I’d probably miss the Falls if I had to move here,” he muses. “Have you been?”

“Niagara Falls?” Connor shrugs. “Sure.”

“I used to go there a lot last year. Just stand there on the edge and, like…” he makes a weird open handed gesture at the empty air and Connor feels a jolt of alarm; it must be visible on his face because Dylan laughs. “God, not to throw myself in or something, geez. No, it’s just...it’s loud there, you know? So loud you can’t hear yourself think. I think I need that, sometimes.” He gives Connor a wan sort of smile. “Reminds you there’s more to the world than hockey, I guess. I can score or be a total fuckup and the Falls keep on falling. They don’t care. Maybe it’s better if I don’t either.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say. He’s seen Dylan struggle to maintain any kind of consistency on a team that doesn’t seem to know what to do with him, everyone has, but he’s also seen him stay consistently upbeat about it, resilient and determined and working hard at each thing the coaching staff set out for him. For all that he has to write about trade speculation and critique Dylan’s skating and whatever, he’s always tried to convey that side of him too when reporting on the team. It’s admirable, shows grit and a good work ethic and all that good stuff. Connor’s wondered about how being bounced around between junior and the minors and the big show, having no consistency in his linemates, going from big first unit powerplay minutes to languishing on the fourth line, might really have affected him under the earnest professionalism and the easygoing, cheerful attitude he maintains with the press, for sure. But he didn’t realise it was this bad.

“You probably shouldn’t be telling me this stuff,” he says unhappily.

“Why?” says Dylan, his eyes looking very shiny all of a sudden. “Oh, I guess I’m probably giving you the scoop of your career right now, aren’t I. Dylan Strome’s not just a bust, he’s a headcase too.”

“That’s pretty much why you shouldn’t be telling me, yeah,” Connor tells him, although he wouldn’t use the term _headcase_ , obviously. Pretty sure that’s not in the in-house style guide. And he’s not going to write about any of this anyway, but he could. Should, maybe. His boss would tell him he should. This is the kind of emotionally gripping content fans really want, after all.

Fans are vultures, Connor thinks, watching Dylan hang his head over his half empty beer glass. Fuck the fans.

“Okay,” Dylan says, and then sniffs, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “Now you’ve basically seen me drunk cry. Are we friends yet?”

“Still colleagues, I think,” Connor says, but he scoots over and leans his shoulder companionably against Dylan’s anyway. Dylan gives a watery but genuine laugh.

“I’m going to get to you eventually.”

Yeah, probably. That’s kind of what Connor’s afraid of.

When he gets back to his hotel - the cheap kind, not the lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous kind NHL teams shell out for - he’s got an email back from his editor, even though it’s like four am in Buffalo.

_Another Strome piece? Something different next time please, Connor._

Connor’s had enough beers and feelings to type out that a 2015 draft piece isn’t “another Strome piece” and anyway it’s not his fault that the absence of Dylan Strome was the most interesting thing about that insomnia cure of a game. But he’s sober enough, at least, to delete it without sending.

*

The rest of the road trip is fine. Dylan’s back in for the next game, and manages to score in the game after that, and although he and Connor don’t hang out again while they’re on the road Connor thinks that, from a distance, he looks better after the goal. Relieved. Connor feels relieved too, even though he shouldn’t care that much.

It all goes to hell once they get back to Buffalo.

Not right away. At first things are normal, professional, and then somehow Dylan corners him at the end of an early practice and convinces him to go get coffee after.

“My boss says I need to stop writing about you and focus on the other guys,” Connor says instead of something decisive like “sorry, I can’t,” because what he actually wants to say is _yes_.

“Who said anything about writing?” Dylan grins. “You never finished telling me that story about your college roommate trying to grow weed in the bathroom. I need to know how that ends, man, don’t leave me hanging.”

So they get coffee and talk about anything but hockey, and Connor tries not to think about how stupid he’s being, or how he’s even more stupid when he lets it happen again, and then again. It’s not really a regular thing, but it’s frequent enough to be...a little weird, probably. Connor _has_ real friends, and yet he doesn’t look forward to hanging out with them nearly as much as he looks forward to these random impromptu coffee dates with Dylan. It’s a problem.

No, hang on, they’re not _dates_. Hangouts. Or...informal meetings. Yeah, that’s a better way of looking at it. Informal meetings Connor’s having with an NHL player he’s not interviewing for anything or prepping a story about in any way. If the way Dylan looks at him sometimes feels strange, feels intense and warm as a physical touch, well that’s only Connor’s imagination. Or maybe just something about the way Dylan’s face is put together, those sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. It makes totally innocuous questions feel more intimate than they are.

Like: “Are you seeing anyone, Connor? Got a girlfriend?”

“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” Connor says carefully. He pauses and then adds, a little less carefully, “Wouldn’t be a girlfriend if I was, anyway.”

“Huh, okay,” Dylan says, nodding. His smile is small but it feels...big. “Cool.”

Totally innocuous. Connor’s reading too much into it, probably. And if thinking a player is your friend is stupid, thinking...anything else is _monumentally_ stupid, so.

But Connor’s slowly eroding sense of dignity and self-preservation and apparent grip on reality isn’t even the bad part. The bad part is how it feels when, after a couple of months of companionable coffee not-dates on the road and at home, Dylan suddenly turns cold on him.

It’s not completely unexpected. He got scratched again a few days prior, and while Connor happens to know it was because he had the flu and spent the night stoned on cough medicine (because Dylan was sending him hilariously disjointed texts all through the game - oh yeah, they text now, Connor’s definitely lost all sense of self-preservation), it stirs up the old press speculation about whether the Sabres are about to trade him, and Connor _has_ to wade in on it because, like, that’s his job. Actually the article he writes is on Dylan’s side because, completely unbiasedly of course, he thinks he’s really showing progress this season and making a big contribution to the team, not to mention clearly being a big part of a positive, tight-knit locker room culture. But his editor slapped a dumb clickbait headline on the article - _Is it time for the Sabres to cut their losses with Dylan Strome?_ \- so if Dylan saw it he probably didn’t bother reading far enough to see that Connor’s answer was a resounding _No_.

He’s not made available for press that day, even though a few of the other reporters ask about him, so at least the team seems to be on his side too. He must have seen Connor’s article, though. That’s the only explanation for the moment when he sees Connor heading for the open elevator he’s standing in, and instead of holding the door his face hardens and he really obviously jabs at the close door button.

Connor manages to get his hand in the gap before the doors can close, and they spring open again. He should probably just leave it alone, but he feels hard done by and annoyed by the shuttered, angry expression on Dylan’s face.

“Look,” he says as the doors slide shut. Dylan refuses to look at him, and it only makes him feel worse. “I’m going to have to write about you sometimes. I told you, this is my job, you can’t be mad at me for doing my job.”

“Who’s mad at you?” Dylan says furiously, folding his arms. “You said not to tell you that stuff, so really I’ve only got myself to blame.”

Connor falters. He doesn’t think he wrote anything in the trade rumour article that they’ve talked about alone together, did he? They don’t really talk about that sort of thing.

“What stuff?”

“I actually felt sick when I woke up after,” Dylan goes on, still not looking at him, “thinking, you know, shit, I said way too much there. But then it didn’t turn up in your column or whatever the next day, or the rest of that week, so I thought, okay, maybe this one’s not a total snake after all.”

Connor shakes his head. “I don’t--”

“But, hey! Turns out you were just waiting for the perfect moment to get the most out of your little insider scoop. Well, good for you. Get that paycheck, I guess.”

“Dylan,” Connor says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What insider scoop?”

Dylan does look at him then, the coldest, most withering look Connor may ever have received, like Connor’s an asshole and an utter moron, and honestly Connor kind of feels like both just at the moment. Up close Dylan looks awful, like he hasn’t slept. He makes a disgusted noise and then does something with his phone, and a second later Connor gets a text just as the elevator doors open on the car park.

The text is a link to a google search: _strome niagara falls_. And it’s all headlines like _Strome drowns tears in Niagara Falls_ and _Strome depressed? Is a trade announcement on the way?_ Connor reads them with this kind of dawning horror as Dylan pushes off from the wall and stalks out of the elevator.

“Hey wait,” Connor calls out, hurrying after him. His voice echoes too loud off the concrete, but Dylan doesn’t even break stride. “ _Wait_ , I didn’t write any of this! That stuff was personal, I wouldn’t _publish_ it, come on.”

“So you tipped off someone else so you wouldn’t get your hands dirty,” Dylan snaps, rounding on him. “It doesn’t really matter who took it, or published it. I trusted you with something really-- something _private_ and you--”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Connor insists. “Whatever the hell you think of me, why would I pass that on to someone else instead of writing it myself, anyway?”

“Well I didn’t tell anyone else, so.”

“I would _never_ do that. Not to anyone, but especially…” Connor only just stops himself before he can say too much, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Dylan clearly doesn’t believe him.

“Whatever,” he says flatly, already turning away. Connor’s chest feels tight, like his ribs are clutched in a vise. “That’s what I get for trusting a fucking reporter.”

*

Connor’s boss calls him after he gets home. He’s just sitting in the dark staring at the wall and replaying his conversation with Dylan over and over again in his head, so it’s not like she’s interrupting anything.

“I know I said to ease off on the Strome articles, but this Niagara Falls crying photo thing is everywhere,” she says. “I think we need to do something on it.”

Connor feels like his blood is boiling. He clenches the hand that isn’t holding the phone into a fist, so tight he can feel his nails about to break skin. He feels shaky and nauseated and he hates his whole worthless profession and the complete lack of regard any of them seem to have for anyone else.

“I’m not asking or writing about that,” he says firmly. “Sorry.”

Then he hangs up.

The thing she said about a _photo_ doesn’t even register until he’s sat fuming in the dark for another ten minutes.

He opens up the browser on his phone and that search Dylan sent him is still there, with even more obnoxious article titles and tweets and blog posts than before. He can see now that a lot of the tweets have a photo link in them, so he taps through to the twitter app to see.

The one he clicked on is dumb quote tweet of a post from some sports news site and the retweeter’s added “me when someone took the last poptart”. The photo is a creeper shot, with the grainy quality of a phone zoomed in from some distance away, but it’s unmistakably Dylan, standing at the railing halfway down the waterfall with his chin tilted up towards the spray and a completely anguished look on his face.

It’s so clearly a private moment that Connor feels sick looking at it, like peeping in through someone’s curtains.

This is what Dylan thinks of him now. That he’d not only share personal information that Dylan told him in a totally non-journalistic context, when he was in no state to watch his words, but that Connor would also...what, _follow_ him to Niagara Falls and take sneaky photos of him to share on the internet? Or send someone else to take pictures of him?

God, no wonder he hates him.

The problem, Connor thinks, with insisting to yourself that you’re the reporter and the players are the players, and you’re not friends and don’t owe each other anything, is that it’s...utter bullshit. The idea that you can avoid falling head over heels for someone by just telling yourself it’s not allowed to happen is fucking nonsense. He’s been totally gone on Dylan Strome for months, their so-called professional relationship has been in tatters even longer, and he couldn’t admit it to himself until their stupid, inappropriate, wonderful friendship was ruined as well.

He doesn’t know what to do, how to even begin fixing this. He’s absolutely fucked.

*

He’s half expecting to get his press pass at the KeyBank Centre revoked, but he has no trouble getting in to morning skate on Friday. Connor feels a glimmer of hope that maybe Dylan’s thought about it and decided to believe him after all. But also maybe he was just too embarrassed to say anything to anyone. Or maybe he just doesn’t have the kind of clout with the powers that be to get Connor banned from the rink.

He’s not available for press again, and Connor doesn’t really get to see him up close, just out on the ice with the team, but in every single post skate scrum somebody asks about him. They’ve all been told no questions about the twitter photo will be answered, so don’t bother asking, but people find ways to ask around it anyway, and Connor stands at the back of the crowd getting angrier and angrier and seeing his own resentment reflected in the terse answers from Dylan’s teammates. Which is something, at least. Finally Housley shuts the door on all further questions.

“The most important thing we tell all our younger guys is that you’re going to face setbacks and you just have to respond to them the right way,” he says, looking over the heads of the assembled press. “We’re happy with how this team is coming together and we think we can improve together. We don’t have any plans to make more big changes to our group. That’s all, thanks.”

And he walks away. It’s a nothing kind of answer on the surface, delivered in a calm monotone. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the message is clear: leave the kid alone, we’re not talking about this. Connor fires off a tweet - _Coach shut down Strome trade speculation at skate this morning: “We don’t have any plans to make more big changes to our group”_ \- and heads back to the car.

He doesn’t know how to feel. Relieved Dylan’s team is sticking up for him. Guilty for caring more about a player’s feelings than about The Story. Conflicted about feeling guilty for that because...even if Dylan wasn’t, like, _Dylan_ , he’d still be a person, still be going through stuff that’s hard enough without people trying to force their way into his private life. How many other players’ feelings has Connor stomped all over for The Story without even realising it? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

He’s so wrapped up in his own ethical crisis he doesn’t even realise he’s not alone in the car park until someone says “Hey,” right behind him. Connor jumps and drops his keys.

“Sorry,” says Dylan, picking them up and handing them back to him. “Um. Listen. Can we talk?”

“Off the record?” Connor says. His heart’s still pounding from the scare, or possibly from the way Dylan’s fingers seem to linger on his for a second before pulling away again. His joke lands flat, anyway. “Yeah, sure, we can talk.”

“Not here,” says Dylan. He scratches the back of his neck, looking more awkward than Connor’s ever seen him. “Would you...I know this’ll sound weird, but would you come to my place? I just don’t feel that comfortable talking in public right now. And I’ve got stuff to do at home before the game, you know. Routine shit.”

The way Connor’s heart rate suddenly kicks up another notch is telling him that would be a really bad idea. He should definitely say no to that. 

He doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says. His mouth feels all dry. “What’s the address?”

*

So here Connor is, standing in the middle of Dylan Strome’s kitchen with no legitimate work reason to be here, a million miles away from appropriate reporter/player relations. He tries to be subtle about it as he wipes his sweaty palms on his pants. He left his jacket in the car but he’s still basically in a suit, because he’s just been at work, and Dylan’s in sweats and a loose old shirt with the Erie Otters logo on it, because he’s in his _home_ , and the whole thing feels kind of surreal and fuzzy around the edges. Connor still doesn’t know why he’s here.

“Uh, can I get you anything?” Dylan says, opening the fridge and sticking his head inside. “I’ve got, um, water. Or Gatorade…?”

“Gatorade?” Connor smiles in spite of his nerves. “Seriously?”

Dylan flicks a glance his way and Connor thinks he sees a hint of a smile, but they’re still being kind of careful with each other, so it’s not a big one.

“Oh shut up. Risto keeps trying to get me onto coconut water,” Dylan says into the fridge, “‘cause it’s healthier or whatever, but I don’t know. I guess I’m a traditionalist.” 

He tosses Connor a bottle of water and then leans his back against the closed fridge door, fiddling with the label on a blue Gatorade. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but Connor knows a thing or two about getting someone to open up, so he just drinks his water and waits.

“I know it wasn’t you,” Dylan says at last. “The whole...Falls thing. So I guess I owe you an apology.”

Connor opens his mouth to say...he doesn’t even know what, yet, but Dylan presses on before he can speak.

“It was a fan,” he says. “Some teenager saw me at the Falls and put a sneaky photo up on twitter. Tagged me in it, too, so like...I didn’t see it, but every asshole who follows my mentions did.”

“Oh god,” Connor says.

“Yeah,” Dylan grimaces. “I’m usually good at noticing when someone’s spotted me in public. If you just take a selfie with them they’re pretty happy to share that instead of whatever shitty, embarrassing shot they tried to take without you noticing, but...”

“But you were distracted,” Connor says. Trying to shut out the noise of all that trade speculation. Noise Connor’s been contributing to all along.

“Right. I wouldn’t have known at all except the kid DMed me when she realised what happened. To, like, apologise.” He laughs hollowly. “She wasn’t trying to mock me or anything by posting it. Apparently she was just...worried? And didn’t realise it’d go beyond just her own friends.”

“Jesus,” Connor breathes. “What a complete idiot.”

“She’s just a kid,” Dylan sighs. “I bet you did dumb shit at fifteen too.”

Connor just shakes his head. Crying at niagara falls has turned into a meme on hockey twitter, now. It’s probably going to die down soon, but that fucking photo is going to crop up any time someone wants to humiliate Dylan for the rest of his career, probably. He can’t imagine, if something like that happened to him, being so forgiving about it. But casual invasions of privacy aren’t really an occupational hazard when you’re the one writing the reports.

“The really funny thing is,” Dylan says, and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end, “That photo. It’s got nothing to do with trade rumours or shit with the team or anything like that. I was feeling better about my game. I mean, I think I’ve played pretty good since that scratch, since I got back out there. Sometimes you just need a kick up the ass, you know. I was feeling confident.”

Connor tilts his head curiously, but Dylan’s still not looking at him when he says, “I wasn’t at the Falls to mope about hockey.”

“Did...did something happen?” Connor says, with a knot in the pit of his stomach. Dylan looks at him then.

“Kind of the opposite of that, actually.”

The knot abruptly turns into a fist that grabs hold of Connor’s insides and twists them.

“I was thinking about what kind of idiot I must be,” Dylan says, with a weird little smile, “to spend all my time thinking about someone who thinks my team ought to trade me away from him as soon as they can.”

It feels like all the breath leaves Connor’s body at once. He inhales, sharp and loud, and immediately wishes he was sitting down because all of a sudden it feels like his legs are having a hard time holding him up.

“I never said I think they should trade you,” he says. And then, softer and very much against his better judgement, “I don’t _want_ them to trade you. Away from me.”

He hasn’t really been around long enough to see players he particularly likes traded away, or lost in free agency. Sure a few guys left at the end of last season, but Connor hadn’t really developed enough of a rapport with them in the half season or so he’d been on this beat to actually miss them.

If Dylan left Buffalo now... Connor can hardly imagine his life without him. Which is, of course, insane, and the other reason why you shouldn’t get too attached to hockey players. Because hockey players leave.

Dylan straightens up. Connor doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but it feels like they’re closer together than before, like some kind of invisible thread is drawing them both in. He’s not sure which one of them took a step forward. Maybe both.

“I didn’t think journalists ever wanted anything.” Dylan says, putting his drink down on the bench behind him. He watches Connor’s face like he’s analysing a play, and Connor feels flushed, hot all over. His voice comes out barely more than a whisper, like if he’s quiet enough what he’s saying doesn’t really count.

“I never said that either.”

They stare at each other, and Connor’s wondering if he needs to clarify - _I meant you, you idiot, I want you_ \- when Dylan steps into the last remaining space between them and kisses him.

Connor’s so surprised he drops his bottle of water. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except it’s open, and not only makes a startling noise when it hits the tiles but also sprays water everywhere, making Dylan spring back.

“Shit,” Dylan says, backing away, “sorry, sorry, I’m--”

“No, don’t,” Connor says, and pulls him back in to another kiss. Dylan reels into him so hard their teeth bump together, and Dylan says “sorry” again, softer this time, and Connor just laughs and kisses him again and again.

He forgets about trades and hockey and his stupid job and Dylan’s even more stupid job. None of that matters. All those thoughts are replaced by Dylan’s breath on his cheek, and the heat of his mouth, and how much of his body Connor can get his hands on at once, which is not enough.

“I didn’t ask you here for this, to be clear,” Dylan says. Connor’s laugh comes out muffled against his mouth, and a little giddy.

“I think part of me was kind of hoping you had,” he tells him, helplessly honest, and Dylan kisses him breathless again, backing him into the wall. Connor pulls him tight against him, hooking his fingers into the top of Dylan’s sweatpants and swallowing the urgent little noise he makes when they rock into each other.

He’s pretty sure by the time Dylan’s breathing starts to turn ragged that having sex with a hockey player is going to seriously impinge on his personal code of journalistic ethics.

He honestly can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

*

“Yeah, it’s a risk, I guess, people taking embarrassing photos you maybe wish weren’t out there, but at the end of the day maybe it’s good to see yourself like that because...I don’t know, my old teammate and buddy Andre Burakovsky’s been really open this year about, like, stress and being too hard on himself and how he’s working on that, and I think that’s really cool of him. Cause, you know, your brain performance is just as important as your physical performance and I think guys maybe neglect that side sometimes, or I know I do. Maybe because, you know, this is a tough sport and you’ve gotta be resilient, of course. But I guess sometimes that means—“

“God,” Dylan says from the doorway, interrupting himself on Connor’s laptop screen. “Are you listening to that again?”

Connor looks up. “I have to watch interviews,” he says with a small smile, “it’s my job, remember? Gotta keep up on the hockey news.”

“Ohh, I see.” Dylan says. “Of course, you have to watch the same interview fifty times for your job, how could I forget that?” He walks over to the back of the couch and roughs up Connor’s hair playfully.

“I mean, when the interviewee talks at five times human speed it takes a few replays to catch everything,” Connor says. 

Dylan laughs, draping himself over Connor’s shoulders. “Hey, that was a really raw emotional moment, I’ll have you know,” he says in a mock-offended voice. “I can’t believe you’re mocking my spontaneous outpouring of—”

“I literally wrote a speech for you and watched you practice it.”

“Hmm. Well,” Dylan’s voice dips lower, his lips brushing Connor’s cheek, “you’re a really good writer.”

Connor hits pause on the video and turns his head to be kissed, slow and sweet. Dylan slides one hand up over his shoulder and into his hair and then, while Connor’s distracted, tries to reach out and snap the laptop closed.

“Hey,” Connor says, “I like watching this one.”

“Oh you like the speech you wrote for me?” Dylan raises an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were this into yourself.”

“No, I like the way you deliver it,” Connor tells him. He’d improvised half of it anyway, in the end, talking so fast he probably just had to add extra stuff to keep up. “I like...I like that you took something shitty that happened to you and turned it into something positive. You’re good at turning struggles into positives. That’s...I admire that about you.”

Dylan looks surprised, but pleasantly so, a little pink in the cheeks.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Connor, and punctuates it with a light kiss. “Now if you’ll shut up for a moment, I’m about to get to my favourite part.”

“Oh god,” Dylan groans. Connor presses play.

“It’s like any training, you know, you just need a guy who knows his way around to give you a good once over every now and then. It’s like a tune up.”

Dylan makes a mortified noise and presses his face into Connor’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe,” Connor says delightedly, “that you told the young athletes of north america to go out and cure their anxiety with sex.”

“I was talking about my _therapist_ ,” Dylan says, slightly muffled. “I meant knows his way around the _brain_.”

“Wow,” Connor teases, “that sounds like a serious breach of professional ethics.” Dylan snorts and pokes him in the ribs.

“I’ll give you a serious breach of professional ethics,” he says, and then he’s climbing right over the back of the couch and knocking Connor on his back and Connor’s laptop on the floor, and Connor’s laughing so hard he has trouble kissing him, but they manage anyway.

“You gonna give me a good once over?” Connor grins. “Give my, uh, brain a tune up?”

“Yes,” Dylan says, trying not to laugh. “Shut up, mental health is very important.”

Connor supposes it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Me @ me: Another Strome piece? Something different next time please
> 
> Also I too am proud of Andre Burakovsky and think him being open about how he's working on his mental health this season is really cool and brave and important <3


End file.
